could read like Braille in each chipped cup and crease of leather.
I rode the streetcar home, feeling the sweat cool on my back from the effort of carrying the heavy paper to the tram stop. My pockets were filled with old charcoal pencils and pastels, mostly broken but still good. I had three sable brushes tucked into my socks because I had no other way to carry them. Their quality had once been good. I didn’t think Pankratov would mind me working on this stuff. I smelled the mustiness of Rocco’s shop in the paper. Rocco, King of the World. I even said it to myself a few times, under my breath, my voice lost in the jangle and clatter of the streetcar.
I made calculations, mumbling the sums, figuring how many more days it would buy me in Paris to work with cheap supplies.
The conductor made his way up and down the car with his metal ticket maker slung across his chest, flipping the red, blue and yellow plastic buttons, then striking a lever that spat out a thin yellow slip with a rapid zipping sound.
There was a warm breeze blowing in from the west. “It’s blowing in from Normandy,” said one old lady. “You can smell the apple blossoms from the trees outside Bayeux.” People smiled and filled their lungs. I didn’t smell any apples. Bayeux was a long way off. It was just a thing to say, but still it made everybody smile with the pleasure of remembering the smell. The breeze filled the space of the streetcar, and people turned their faces to it, closing their eyes. I did the same. I felt the dizziness of clean air deep inside me and knew a part of me belonged here now, in the flow of people and machines.
* * *
“S EE ME AFTERWARDS ,” SAID Pankratov. He had collected our Duarte Museum sketches at the end of the previous day. Now he was handing them back.
I stared at the folder, unable to hide my dread. Pankratov’s words reminded me too much of what my old Latin teacher used to say when I had failed a test.
After class, when the others had cleared out, I remained at my stool. I hadn’t touched the sketches.
Pankratov sat down in his chair. “Come over here,” he said.
I slipped off the stool and walked toward him.
“Bring the sketches,” he told me.
I turned around, returned to the easel and fetched the damned sketches.
Pankratov held out his hand for the folder.
I handed it over.
He opened the folder and looked through the sketches again. “These are very good, you know,” he said.
For a moment, I was too surprised to reply. I’d had no idea what he would think of my work, but had just assumed the worst.
“Did you hear what I told you?” asked Pankratov.
“Yes,” I replied faintly. “Thank you.”
“They’re very good. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” I told him.
“I’m impressed,” he said, looking around the room as if unwilling to look me in the eye when making such a statement. Then his head snapped back to face me. “All right,” he announced. “You can go now.”
As I walked down to the Rue Descalzi, I replayed his words over and over in my head, not trusting their meaning. Sure that he intended something else. I had never expected any kind of compliment from him. I didn’t think him capable of it. Slowly, as I began to relax, I realized what a hold this man had on me, and how badly I needed his approval.
* * *
T HE NEXT MORNING I woke, as usual, to the sound of muttering voices in the Rue Descalzi. I could smell the particularly sour, perfumey reek of Matelot tobacco, which was the cheapest brand. When I looked from my window, I saw a line of men outside the gates of the Postillon warehouse. They were shabbily dressed, with floppy caps that hid their faces in the shadows of the morning. They stood with the bowed heads of men down on their luck.
When the foreman arrived with his hobnailed boots echoing in the street, his Dragoon mustache was always freshly waxed. Brass buttons gleamed on his double-breasted tunic. He
I rode the streetcar home, feeling the sweat cool on my back from the effort of carrying the heavy paper to the tram stop. My pockets were filled with old charcoal pencils and pastels, mostly broken but still good. I had three sable brushes tucked into my socks because I had no other way to carry them. Their quality had once been good. I didn’t think Pankratov would mind me working on this stuff. I smelled the mustiness of Rocco’s shop in the paper. Rocco, King of the World. I even said it to myself a few times, under my breath, my voice lost in the jangle and clatter of the streetcar.
I made calculations, mumbling the sums, figuring how many more days it would buy me in Paris to work with cheap supplies.
The conductor made his way up and down the car with his metal ticket maker slung across his chest, flipping the red, blue and yellow plastic buttons, then striking a lever that spat out a thin yellow slip with a rapid zipping sound.
There was a warm breeze blowing in from the west. “It’s blowing in from Normandy,” said one old lady. “You can smell the apple blossoms from the trees outside Bayeux.” People smiled and filled their lungs. I didn’t smell any apples. Bayeux was a long way off. It was just a thing to say, but still it made everybody smile with the pleasure of remembering the smell. The breeze filled the space of the streetcar, and people turned their faces to it, closing their eyes. I did the same. I felt the dizziness of clean air deep inside me and knew a part of me belonged here now, in the flow of people and machines.
* * *
“S EE ME AFTERWARDS ,” SAID Pankratov. He had collected our Duarte Museum sketches at the end of the previous day. Now he was handing them back.
I stared at the folder, unable to hide my dread. Pankratov’s words reminded me too much of what my old Latin teacher used to say when I had failed a test.
After class, when the others had cleared out, I remained at my stool. I hadn’t touched the sketches.
Pankratov sat down in his chair. “Come over here,” he said.
I slipped off the stool and walked toward him.
“Bring the sketches,” he told me.
I turned around, returned to the easel and fetched the damned sketches.
Pankratov held out his hand for the folder.
I handed it over.
He opened the folder and looked through the sketches again. “These are very good, you know,” he said.
For a moment, I was too surprised to reply. I’d had no idea what he would think of my work, but had just assumed the worst.
“Did you hear what I told you?” asked Pankratov.
“Yes,” I replied faintly. “Thank you.”
“They’re very good. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so,” I told him.
“I’m impressed,” he said, looking around the room as if unwilling to look me in the eye when making such a statement. Then his head snapped back to face me. “All right,” he announced. “You can go now.”
As I walked down to the Rue Descalzi, I replayed his words over and over in my head, not trusting their meaning. Sure that he intended something else. I had never expected any kind of compliment from him. I didn’t think him capable of it. Slowly, as I began to relax, I realized what a hold this man had on me, and how badly I needed his approval.
* * *
T HE NEXT MORNING I woke, as usual, to the sound of muttering voices in the Rue Descalzi. I could smell the particularly sour, perfumey reek of Matelot tobacco, which was the cheapest brand. When I looked from my window, I saw a line of men outside the gates of the Postillon warehouse. They were shabbily dressed, with floppy caps that hid their faces in the shadows of the morning. They stood with the bowed heads of men down on their luck.
When the foreman arrived with his hobnailed boots echoing in the street, his Dragoon mustache was always freshly waxed. Brass buttons gleamed on his double-breasted tunic. He
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